They

I sense the distant light is growing brighter, but of course, I may be wrong,

Yet the fragment of belief leads back to the many pilgrims I have met along my circuitous route toward old age

They wore no uniforms nor identification. Yet at each perilous stop, they appeared with a helping hand reaching out to assist me when it was needed most.

They were always unnamed and our paths never crossed again. Sometimes I dare to wonder if they were the angels that once were an integral part of my childhood liturgy.

And as I remember one, another comes fleetingly into mind and the list becomes far too long to narrate, but let me begin.

My Dad died two days before our first son was born, The trauma of losing my beloved Father took its toll on my body and invariably, on the infant waiting to enter the world.

Our boy was born barely weighing 5 lbs. Momentarily left alone shortly after his birth , I fell into a coma while holding his tiny body . Our newborn infant began to slide off the bed.

An unidentified woman was walking past my room at Holy Name Hospital in Teaneck, NJ'. She miraculously caught our son seconds before he rolled off the bed onto the concrete floor.

I never met the Good Samaritan.

No one in the hospital could identify the passerby, and the infant grew up to serve his God and follow his own destiny.

And if sometimes in the dark night of the soul I dare to question, I always find an answer when I remember all the Samaritans who wore no uniforms and had no wings.